Photo by Uniq Trek on Unsplash

Goodbye, dear Ivette, 
you cannot expect
anything from a poet;
who, you know, must trust
to snow and winter’s howl,
to a wolfish life of hellish strife,
which prepares us for nothing more
than the resurrection of the dead:
tired, wild, flowers, dread mountains.
I said survival’s the trick of the day,
words that come in the dark
don’t drift away. A poem is
a howl that’s like the bark
of a favourite dog,
you have to put down — 
a word for the wise: 

no disguise.